


Collection

by Tolpen



Series: Downey Centric Headcanon Pile [4]
Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, Politics, Wild OC Appears, well not really because I don't know a thing about politics but let is slide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2019-01-06 12:34:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12211395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tolpen/pseuds/Tolpen
Summary: Some people collect stamps, some collect insect. Some, like the Patrician, collect everything useful. Lord Downey thought himself a collector of people. And the stories bound to them. He had quite a collection. If there was ever need for a minimalistic army, he was certainly prepared





	1. Atteroy, Lord Balthazar

**Author's Note:**

> In my work Untold, Lord Atteroy is Downey's secretary. I have a tendency to overthink minor unimportant OCs which are meant to fill some gaps in the stories.  
> The same goes for the Lete march, this place was mentioned in Untold.

Downey met Atteroy four years after finishing his postgraduate at the annual Raven Cloak Conference which had been held that year in Lipwig. Downey took the opportunity to attend not because he was interested in meeting his colleagues in inhumation from abroad, but because it was a chance to see Ludo after all those years.

There was no Ludo to be seen, however, Downey got caught in a very interesting discussion about the Agetanean use of needles with Marcius da Quirm. The talk was even more interesting because da Quirm didn't speak Morporkian, and his Quirmian was so fast and heavily accented Downey considered himself lucky that he understood at least some of the prepositions. So they spoke with each other in Brindisian, which left them both with the same disadvantages.

As they came to a mutual disagreement and parted, a young assassin, even younger than Downey (who was considered very young in this kind of company), dressed in vivid red suit approached him and exclaimed cheerfully: 'I see Lete favours black this season.'

The man also spoke Brindisian, but unlike Marcius da Quirm this man was, as far as Downey could judge his accent (and he could judge it to the Rim and back to the Hub if needed), a native speaker. Therefore Downey answered also in Brindisian, although with much less enthusiasm: 'Apparently.'

'I have been to Lete recently. Beautiful place, really. Such a shame it now lays mostly in ruins, wouldn't you agree?' The man took two glasses of red wine from a waitress passing by, and gave one of them to Downey who ostentatiously didn't check it for poisons.

'I would definitely agree, had I been ever to Lete.' The red assassin's face was priceless. Downey was amused.

The man, however, recovered from the shock quite quickly: 'Certainly you accent had lived there for a time.'

'My teacher was a Letian.'

'And you?'

'Ankh-Morpork,' Downey smiled. 'Nice suit.'

'Genua favours red. So it doesn't show when your... patient bleeds on you.' He sipped wine.

'I doubt it works,' Downey said.

'It doesn't. But red is stylish and obligatory in our thing.' They finished their wine and, since they enjoyed each other's company, they went to get themselves some more. A whole bottle if possible. (Downey always said that the amount of alcohol consumed exponentially grows with the number of assassins (capital A denied) present in the room. For example being alone in the room, Downey would take a sip of gin just for the taste, while Raven Cloak meetings consisted of fifty assassins, give or take a few, who had to empty a wine cellar to get along with each other.)

'What about yours?' red suit asked.

'Hm?'

'Your suit. I mean, does Ankh-Morpork wear only black?' he clarified.

Downey shrugged and found them an unoccupied place and an unguarded bottle of white. 'Oh, you know. The night is black, your suit is black. Makes you basically invisible.'

It earned him a considering look and a comment: 'I doubt it works.'

'It doesn't,' Downey grinned. 'But black is stylish and obligatory in our guild.'

The other man chuckled and offered Downey his hand. 'Balthazar Atteroy. Lord Atteroy, but if you call me that, I swear I'll garotte you.'

'Ricin Downey. Doctor Downey if we play the titles.'

That caught Atteroy's attention: 'A Doctor? What field?'

'You'd be surprised, actually medical.' He poured them the wine and continued: 'However, I am aiming at doctorate in Applied Alchemy.'

'Poisons?'

'Poisons.'

There was a thoughtful silence between them and then Atteroy asked: 'Do you fence?' He had a certain gleam in his eyes.

'I am not completely unfamiliar with this technique,' Downey nodded.

'there is an unused armory here.' They grinned at each other and left the room so fast Downey didn't even get to let Dr. Cruces know where did he go. (It also later got him a Look and Glare, but at the time Downey had been already married, so it completely missed its point and Downey suggested Cruces to get himself new glasses because 'he is staring like a shitting snake.')

The armory was dark. Atteroy's suit seemed black and Downey's antracite.

'Quite a collection,' Downey noted and tried to blink at least a little bit of night vision into his eyes.

'Indeed. But mainly decorative.'

Downey took a gladius off the wall and tested it by swinging it in hand. He turned around and - 'Are you serious?'

'Deadly,' Atteroy muttered.

'Why don't you take the armour set that belongs to that zweigander?'

'Because,' the man grinned and positioned himself in the classic fencing stance as much as it was possible with his weapon of choice, 'I won't need it.'

'You are completely mad.'

'Take you stance.'

'An absolute scag.'

'So are you. Take the stance.'

Downey shook his head and proved Atteroy right by taking his stance. Two and half minute later a chair flew over his head. It turned out that Lord Atteroy's definition of fencing was any fight including at least one sword.

Nothing stars a years lasting friendship like a proper sword fight.


	2. Sto Helit, Duchess Susan

It was the year the whole thing with the dragon happened. Dr. Cruces, at the time already Head of the Assassins' Guild, had sent Downey to Sto Helit to attend to some kind of a very dull event where it would look nice when a member of the Guild was representing the said Guild. Downey had finally got the doctorate in Applied Alchemy, now renamed as Poisons, and he was quite sure that Cruces wanted him out of the town, gods can stick the representation. Downey hated gatherings.

 

He needed a break from all the light and chatter, and so he retreated from the ballroom into a dark and cold hall. Now, that wa better, much better. Maybe a glass of gin would be even better, he thought as he admired the chandeliers and carpets.

And then he saw a girl. She was holding a big dog skull, or maybe not a dog but certainly a canine. She had noticed him as well, because she said: 'I have a skull.' For someone who was five years old, she had a surprisingly good pronunciation.

'Sure you have,' Downey nodded and wondered whose child it was. She seemed familiar, but Downey, so proud of his memory of faces, couldn't recall her name. How frustrating.

'I'm going to make a hamlet from it,' the girl said.

'You mean a helmet.'

'No,' she shook her white-haired head and Downey suddenly remembered this girl had been introduced as the daughter of the Duke Sto Helit. 'I mean a hamlet. For skeleton fairies.'

Doctor Downey forced a smile: 'Don't forget to make them a kitchen. When I made my daughter a doll house, I forgot to make a kitchen and all the dolls starved to death.' The girl gave him a considering look and then left. Downey thought he'd never see her again. He couldn't say he had forgotten about this eerie encounter, but it was pushed at the back of his mind.

He was reminded of it several years later as the Master of Assassins, Head of the Guild, Headmaster of the Assassins' Academy, whatever is the title that pleases you. Hell, he was even a Lord now. He didn't want to be.

It was a very cold winter morning, the Hogswatch morning. The night had been something terrible. There had been the first wave of panic within the Guild when Lord Selachii had found a small pixie-like creature with a tiny bucket of white paint in the bathroom. It had painted over the half of his hair white, introduced itself as Silverbloom and the it had attempted to hide in Downey's office. That proved as a stupid idea, because the Head of the Guild was tired, already white-haired (ever since his twenties, actually), and had an encounter with actively reproducing paperwork on his table. A man who had seen administration copulating on his work desk couldn't be possibly bothered less by a pixie, so he took Silverbloom and stuffed it in the poison cache in breast pocket.

And then there came a woman, storming thorough the door without bothering to open them. Mind her, she hadn't broken them, no.ů She walked thorough it as if it was nothing more than a fog. Downey's brain was still processing it, so it didn't notice a poker in the lady's hand aimed at his head.

'Ow! what was that even for?' One had to give it to the lady, indeed she had quite the swing in her hand. Lord Downey had to take two steps back to keep his balance. He touched his temple in disbelief. It wasn'T bleeding, but  it was aching like... like something very aching.

She hit him with a piece of paper in her face. He was in such a shock it hadn't occurred to him he could had dodged. Or, like, read the paper. Not in the first seconds, anyway. When he took the paper to read it, he collapsed into his chair and brushed small spawns of administration off the table. Once finished with the reading, he looked up at the damsel: 'And?'

'Do you even realise what the consequences could had been?' Lady's rage was poorly concealed. She seemed familiar...

'This was never by field of expertise, to put it lightly,' he admitted. Then he poured himself a glass of gin, gods knew he needed it, and didn't offer any of it to the woman.

She explained to him.

He asked her to clarify.

She clarified.

Lord Downey finished his gin and said thoughtfully: 'I see.'

She was giving him an especially furious look. Downey thought: She should never meet my wife. I wouldn't survive that.'

'Tell me, Your Grace,' he put down his glass and looked at the woman as she flinched, 'have you thought about teacher's career?'

'No.'

'You'd be a better teacher than a governess.'

She glared at him.

'Think about it. And now, if you have finished hitting Assassins with pokers, Your Gr-'

'Miss Susan,' she interrupted.

'- Your Grace Miss Susan, I'd appreciate if you'd let me work. As you can see, we are currently recovering from a state of emergency.' Downey took his pen to show he meant it.

Susan left.

He idly wondered if she had a hamlet made from a canine skill in her room. 'Probable not,' he concluded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sure we all believe that administration work breeds. How else could there be so much of it?


	3. Laurel, Madam Hannah

Hannah Laurel had promised to be a special case since the day one. Within the first week after he had taken over the position of the Head of the Guild, Doctor Downey had a lot of running around. Let's face it, Doctor Cruces (dear and thank gods departed) hadn't thought much of Guild interactions. And Downey, who had always disagreed with him on this topic (and many other topics, too), had a lot of neglected years of work to catch up with. Talk about work handicap.

Various Guild Masters had various... audition quirks. Downey himself picked up the one of offering his guests a drink (stored in a cabinet together with poisons, yes are you sure you don't want any, not even a glass?). He learned soon that upon seeing Boggis he should know _exactly_ what he brought with him and ask for it back _before_ leaving. The Teachers with random questions and blowing up Alchemists, they all were understandable and bearable. And then there was Rosie Palm.

He was sitting in an armchair, a very comfortable one actually. He had left his coat, had, and scarf in the hallway. It was hot inside. And the there were the girls. Downey wondered how much of it was an actual negotiation strategy and what was just purely for Rosemary's amusement. He sighed. Rosie chuckled: 'Should I call for more tea?'

'If you'd be so kind,' he smiled at her. If nothing else, it meant the girl on his lap would have to get off him to go to the kitchen where she'd make tea and probably switched with one of her colleagues. _Especially the change,_ Downey thought, _would be well welcomed. This one has a terrible amount of a horrible perfume all over her._ And really, the voluptuous ginger-head skipped off.

'I wonder, Madam Palm.'

'What about, dear Doctor?'

'Does Queen Molly receive the same treatment as I do?'

Rosie only smiled and he took it as 'no'. Another girl came in, she was holding a teapot which smelled of mint. At least they were going to give him good tea, now when they decided to play with him like a cat with a mouse. The girl poured tea for him and Rosie, and then she seated herself on the armrest right next to Downey. There were plenty of other armchairs she could sit in without invading anyone's personal space (and mind, Assassins have bigger personal space than anyone, which you should respect unless you want to impale yourself on something sharp), but that was exactly the point.

Rosemary had explained it to him the very first day: As a weak and fragile woman (Downey begged to differ), she was disadvantaged in political negotiations with men. But no one could be really offended if she gained a little advantage by distracting other parties, and the seamstresses were very good at distracting people, men in particular. So much for Downey having at least one young woman pressed against his chest every time he entered the building.

'So, where have we cut off?'

Downey pretended to have problems remembering and then said: 'I think we have left off at the subject of self-defence.' There was a hand in his hair. It actually felt quite nice, the girl was massaging his head and Downey, who had been stressed out of his socks in the past few weeks, was enjoying this little relief while it lasted. He only hoped it didn't show.

Rosie was talking, he was answering and replying, and the thin black-haired girl was subtly shoving her fingers under his shirt. He noticed she wasn't exactly _pretty_. Tall and thin, flat like an ironing board, dark haired and she probably had a Klatchian parent, at least one. She was cold, or at least her hand was, and smelled of gooseberry and honey, which was making Downey drowsy. (When was the last time he had slept?) She could be found curiously attractive if dressed properly and even the Master of Assassins could, under certain circumstances, find her alluring. But certainly not pretty and definitely not beautiful.

This went on for another half an hour before Rosie was called off to a pressing matter requiring her presence. It wasn't specified what the matter was and Downey was sure he didn't want to know. However, he was assured Madam was going to be with him in a while, so if he'd be so kind and waited for her to return. And so he waited.

The girl awkwardly got up and it seemed she didn't know where to look.

'Would you also like tea?' Downey asked her. 'I think Madam Palm should have offered you as well.' But the girl only shook her head.

'What's your name?' he tried again. The girl looked so unhappy and nervous being left with him alone in one room, he took pity and decided to seem more approachable.

'Hannah,' she nearly whispered. And then promptly added: ' I am sorry.'

'What for?'

'That I... You know. Marcia said you really mind this.' She shuffled her legs awkwardly.

'Is Marcia the one who has her everything pierced?' Hannah confirmed it with a nod, so he continued: 'She was searching thorough my pockets. Which, yes indeed, I really mind.'

Hannah bit lip and said: 'I've found knives on you. But I didn't go thorough your pockets,' she added hastily.

'Well, and did you cut yourself?'

'No.'

'Good,' he smiled at her. 'In fact better that most students at out Academy.' She didn't seem to take it as a compliment. But then, she didn't seem to mind either.

'Are you at least enjoying listening to the conversation between the Madam and I? As I understand it, you don't take a pleasure acting as a... negotiation advantage.' He took his cup of tea, it was still warm and the mint was calming.

'I find politics far more interesting then being a seamstress, sir,' Hannah admitted.

'Oh, sir, I had never had none the education you do, so... So,' she said. Downey wanted to ask her more questions and keep the the pleasant chit-chat, but then the door behind him opened and the heavy lilac perfume announced Madam Rosemary Palm. She seated herself back in the armchair opposite to Downey, and with a frown she sent Hannah away, because her presence was needed no longer and she, Rosie, and their dear doctor would appreciate some privacy now.

'I have been thinking about the self-defence thing,' said Downey when he heard the door close.

'You have said there is nothing more we have to talk about on that matter,' Rosie put down her cup.

'Yes, I have. But now I had time to think about it quiet and peace.'

'I am listening.'

'My idea was to have, say, a couple of your girls trained at the AA who would act as a sort of... Protection.'

'You mean like the Agony Sisters?'

'that is the spirit, yes,' Downey nodded. He was aware that Rosie would see it in a negative way. After all, the Academy was very possessive of their students. However, Rosie was a businessman (respective businesswoman) and a desperate one, and Downey proposed the idea of giving the girls basically free scholarship.

Rosie sipped her tea and said: 'Hmm, hmm.. Interesting. Intriguing. However, tell me, Doctor dear, why would you think you would be able to find among my girls any, that would be capable of undergoing the Academy training? As far as I am informed, your _alma mater_ tends to be very... Selective.'

'We usually use the term _demanding_.' Downey poured himself another cup and smiled: 'Madam, I personally think that anyone could be taught the basics if they are willing. And then, Miss Hannah still hadn't left the room without you noticing it.'

He didn't even look up as Rosie stared at the shadow behind his armchair, only a gasp hinting she had utter disbelief written all across her face.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks gods this is over. I bet you feel the same.

**Author's Note:**

> Did you know that Genua doesn't have it's own language? I didn't. Finding out quite upset me.I always thought there is a language called Genuean (or Genovean) which sounds just like Roundworld Italian. Genua, no matter how jazzy and new-orleansy might feel, it always stroke me more as Italian city, which might be the name or Madam Roberta Meserole's (and therefore Vetinari's) origin.  
> However I have found out there is a state called Brindisi which neighbours with Genua and speaks Brindisian, which sounds exactly like Roundworld Italian.  
> I am mentioning this, so you can go back and find that one joke I am very proud of.


End file.
